Condemned
by Skye Slipstream
Summary: The team knows too much. The Adminstrator, the Builders League and the authorities want them dead. All of them will have to stick together to survive, as they try to escape the world in a pick-up truck. Rated T for violence and mild language, maggot.
1. Prologue & On The Lamb

_My first fanfiction in, oh, quite a while. Most of my comments are at the end of this, for the sake of spoilers and all that.  
_

_By the way, it's a bit long for a one-shot, so get a drink. Cup o' tea would be spot on._

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* * *

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Of all the people you wanted to hang around with while you were trying to escape from the government, eight homicidal mercenaries would not be high on the list. But when you were the ninth, it seemed rather hypocritical to complain about it. However, complaining was all Scout seemed to do nowadays.

"Freakin' un-be-lievable!" The young Bostonian said loudly to no one in particular. He paced with a rapid anxious manner, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The faint rain of the average Georgian autumn battered at the window, covered in dust and dirt.  
The Scout would occasionally peek out through the almost opaque window just in case, but the Sniper would shoo him away like the recurring torrent of flies buzzing around him. The Australian silently swatted them away, trying to keep his patience before he had to be "professional" about things.

"Listen, mate, complainin' 'bout it ain't gonna make it any better. Now piss off, I can keep watch without you hangin' over me like a bloody buzzard." The Sniper's hand subconsciously moved towards the hilt of his kukri, but he managed to keep himself at bay. Keeping calm was part of the job.

"Well, bedda' safe than sorry, don'tcha think?" He took another quick glance through the scratched glass, then ventured off. Scout knew that over the course of a year, the Sniper wasn't the type who enjoyed conversation (along with the Spy and the Pyro).

* * *

The rustic shack that served as a hideout for the unfortunate nine should have been condemned if there was any life for five miles. It had been apparently abandoned (though Spy had insisted that the red splatters on the living room wall was 'just paint') and was hardly sufficient for housing one person. It was therefore difficult to house nine fully grown and mentally unhinged individuals.  
The Scout was tired of the living room; the adamant Sniper remained at his post with steely conviction, while the inebriated Demoman was slumped in the corner.

The self-proclaimed 'black Scottish cyclops' was sleeping restlessly and faint dribbles of spit were lying around his cracked lips. The Scotsman had not coped well with the escape; alcohol had been hard to come by while the group had been on the run. While they managed to garner supplies often enough, there was never enough whiskey and the Demoman refused to drink of 'that American cripe'. However, when they managed to haul in a bottle of whiskey or two, his remaining eye would light up, much like it did when he was an orphan, opening up his one annual Christmas present.

He was the perfect drunk; he was happy and giddy, but never too much. In fairness, a man who spends so much time intoxicated would get used to keeping himself in _some_ form of ordinary conduct, but nobody could do it like Demoman. A shame he had pretty much gone depressed without his constant supply of sweet liquor. Everyone had dependencies.

On the other hand, the Sniper seemed much less upset. The Scout had heard that he spent years in the Australian outback alone, so he didn't have many dependencies. The Sniper claimed it was just "self-discovery" and "sightseeing", but most of the team didn't think his intentions in his rural adventures were legal. There were rumours, going from poaching to war crimes to assassinations.

Sniper didn't earn much trust since he didn't trust them, but Scout knew that was only to be expected. Sniper spent a lot of time alone, and maybe he went a little mad with loneliness. Maybe they all did. Nonetheless, the Sniper would tip his hat, adjust his glasses and (when the Scout wasn't acting like an obnoxious child) give a small smile. He always said he had to be polite. Scout wondered what he did that made him so sorrowful about his job.

Scout trotted into the single hallway, still annoyed by the endless sound of rain on the wooden planks and metal sheets that comprised the roof. Engineer sat by the front door (which lacked a functioning handle and several hinges) on a dented toolbox, arms crossed and construction helmet hung low over his head. The thick goggles made the Scout wonder whether he was sleeping or not. His question was answered as the stout Texan looked up, nodded, then looked down. Not up for a conversation either.

The Engineer was perhaps the most 'normal' of the lot. Grew up in a proper family, earned some fancy PhDs, had a wife (though he was now a widower) and didn't have any mental illnesses. Still, back in the good old days, he would laugh maniacally when his sentry tore apart a wave of attackers, or go into a blind fury whenever he heard the familiar sound of a sapper. Maybe he was normal before he got here, but to survive in their line of work, he needed to get a little bit madder. But he usually kept his cool, used his smarts, and helped the team out whenever he could. He seemed obsessed with his job, but so did everyone else. Mercenaries did that.

The Scout fumed under his breath from the Engineer's unusual silence, then checked the kitchen.

* * *

The kitchen was even more of a mess than usual. The cupboard doors had been violently swung open, with one or two of them completely removed, leaving a faint blanket of splinters on the floorboards. Empty cans and ripped wrappers littered the kitchen surfaces.

"Big shaved bear attack?" The Scout said, unable to keep a trademark cocky smile off his face. The Heavy turned around and glared at the intruder to his territory.

"Quiet, little Scout. Not enough food." The Heavy replied with a threatening growl.

"Never enough food, eh, big man?" The Scout refused to be intimidated.

The Heavy tightened his glare and for a moment, the Scout felt a heartbeat skip. The huge man then unexpectedly threw into a fit of laughter.

"Little Scout is funny to me. Maybe I will eat _him_ up instead." He jokingly licked his lips. The Scout chuckled, not sure whether he was laughing at him or with him. Hey, they were team-mates, so he couldn't hate him (unless he was wearing blue, obviously). After a moment of personal debate, he settled for butter on toast. He began arranging his lunch, grumbling silently ("...not the same as sandvich...")

The Heavy was exactly what people thought he was; a big man with a big heart. No big brains, though. Many pranks were pulled at his expense, yet the Heavy would always take it in stride. No one understood why the most bloodthirsty and deadly one among them would also be the friendliest and most innocent.

The Heavy delighted in simple pleasures, from his sandviches, to his singing. However, his greatest love was his minigun, Sasha. Another thing the rest of the team couldn't understand, but the Medic had once explained that Sasha had been "someone close to him" and left it at that. Scout wondered just how traumatised the Heavy was. If he couldn't be hurt physically, he could certainly be hurt emotionally.

The Pyro and Medic were on the other side of the room, trying to avoid agitating the Russian behemoth by making their own lunch. The most simplistic apparatus was being used; the log fireplace, a pan and a spoon. Inside lay a soup of unknown flavour, tinted sick green and vomit orange. The doctor looked up as he swirled his hand in a circular motion, trying to imagine the soup into something better.

"Ah, hello, Scout. I trust you have somezing useful to tell us for once, kleinen schieβkerl." The Medic didn't enjoy Scout's company, much like the others.

The Medic was a sadistic man, who enjoyed his line of work as much as the average man enjoyed working at an office desk, crunching numbers. His only delight seemed to be maiming and examining bodies (Scout had once made a necrophilia joke, but no one 'appreciated its frickin' genius'). The Medic, however, did see it as his responsibility to keep the team alive and well, if only so he got a fresh supply of bodies at a faster rate.

Scout couldn't figure out why he felt it was his responsibility to keep them in shape. Maybe he didn't see the team as equals, but just walking killing machines. No, Medic wasn't that bad. He was a source of advise and never one to back down to a drinking contest (he was a lightweight, but they appreciated his attempts to impress the team). Smart, too.

Scout shrugged. "Nah, nah, nothing. Though 'spose that's good? Don't want guys sniffing 'round the place."

"Hmph. Zat wouldn't be fun." The Medic turned to the Pyro. "Pyro, go get- Ach! Pyro!" He clapped his hands loudly in front of the masked figure. The pyromaniac had been lighting matches randomly and playing with them without any regard for the highly flammable habitat they were in. The loud noise caught his attention and he promptly threw the matches into the cooking fire.

The Pyro was an enigma, masking himself to the point where he was more unknown than Spy (which annoyed the European to a great extent). Some thought he was pyromaniac, while one or two thought he was pyrophiliac. In this crazy gang of theirs, it wouldn't be a shock. Sometimes, the Scout questioned the Pyro and wondered if there was some chick beneath that suit.

There were two very good reasons why he didn't ask; getting an answer from the contorted rambling of mumbles and muffles would be impossible, and the Pyro wasn't known for discretion. Sometimes, he would sharpen his axe and snigger through his filter with insane delight (which quickly reassured Scout there was a guy underneath). He was 'a cuckoo bird', but he did his job with much enthusiasm. A little too much enthusiasm.

The Pyro lay still, watching the fire surge slightly from the increase in fuel, watching the sparks fly up into the moist air, watching the fire wave and beckon the Pyro towards-

"PYRO!" The German roared, even catching the attention of his Russian friend (who was turning faces at the taste of his toast). The masked figure finally snapped out and immediately turned to the doctor. The Medic ran a gloved palm over his face in frustration. "Just... just go get some of ze bowls." Pyro tilted his head briefly, then stood up and jogged over to retrieve the items, mirroring the enthusiasm of a dog going to fetch.

The Scout watched him run off to the ruined cupboards, then turned back to Medic. The expression made it clear he was not going to spend his time with him either. The Scout, now annoyed with the lack of people willing to just chat with him, snarled and stormed off.

* * *

Walking into the back room, he observed the scrambled mattresses and littered possessions lying around in the makeshift barracks. The Soldier slept in his full uniform, facing the ceiling, helmet covering his eyes. The Scout knew how the procedure worked.

"Relax, ol' man, it's me, Scout." He held back a bored yawn as he spoke.

"How do I know you ain't no damn Spy?" The Soldier's guarding charade crumbled to pieces.

"Cause you'd be dead by now, wouldn't ya?" The youngest teammate gave a brief chuckle.

The Soldier pounced up, bearing a shovel and a lit cigarette (which had also helped the Scout deduce the Soldier's plan). He snarled, saw the smirk the Scout gave him, then stood to attention. He refused to salute, however, as he never saw the Scout as superior; he only gave his precious salutes to the young boy on special occasions (whether it was capturing enemy intelligence or a birthday).

The Soldier was not of sound mind, there was no debate about that. His only joy in life seemed to be killing, which he did with great efficiency. He was always alert and twitching, waiting for an alarm to ring or an explosion to scream. The man hardly ever relaxed and thus he wasn't the best of party guests.

What he lacked in social skills and mental health, he made up for in leadership and courage (though whether he was brave or just stupid was unclear). The Soldier was always the first to take charge and all he asked for was loyalty, which the team would usually deliver. Scout thought about how this man worked and his obsession with killing. Sure, they had all killed and eventually got used to the sight and smell of decomposing organs (especially the Medic) but the Soldier seemed to be see it as a hobby. Not like he had any other hobbies, though.

The army man gave a stern, disapproving look to his intruder. "What'd you want, rookie?"

The Scout saw yet another person unlikely to be entertainment for a while. "Nuttin', sarge."

The Soldier gave a curt nod. "Tell that Frenchie to hand me some more cigarettes, too."

"Do not refer to me as zat." The Spy materialised in between the two co-workers. The Scout jumped back in surprise, while the Soldier flinched in shock. "Or should I refer to you as 'Pig-'eaded American' for ze rest of ze day?"

"Why were you watching a superior officer without notice?!" His fingers itched on his entrenchment tool.

"Ze Scout is not a superior officer." The Spy said silkily. The Soldier stood down again. "I was guarding ze barracks."

"That was MY job." The Soldier was clearly angry. Then again, it was hard to think of him not being angry for once.

"I thought you could use some _unique 'elp_, as you did not seem capable of it yourself." The secret agent let out another puff of smoke.

The Scout immediately backed out of the room and closed the door. A torrent of curses ran forth. A torrent of foreign curses followed. The Scout backed away further, then out to the corridor.

* * *

The Engineer looked up again, saw the Scout in his crestfallen state, and gave a low whistle. He patted his toolbox, as he bunched over to offer room. The Bostonian sat next to the Texan and quirked a thin eyebrow.

"Thought you weren't up for a chat, hardhat."

"Well, I was just thinkin' bout..." The Engineer hesitated. "...Don't matter. No one else free?" He knew the answer, of course.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, that and they don't wanna talk or nothin'. This whole thing has split us apart, ya know?" The Scout pulled a frown.

"Yep." The Engineer gave a brief sigh. "Yep."

The two sat in silence for a while, contemplating their current state. Being on the run was about as fun as they imagined it would be.

"Come on, fella, I think Medic's done makin' enough soup by now." The Engineer turned his head around the corner and inspected the kitchen. He turned back and nodded.

The Scout, smirking, stood up and roared at the top of his voice. "SOUP'S ON!"

Several swears and insults replied, followed by their respective owners, as the team marched into the kitchen.

The Engineer jerked the Scout in the ribs with approval. "That oughta' wake them fellas up." He gave a laugh, the Scout laughed back, then the two joined the others in the kitchen.

* * *

The team ate in silence.

The Scout sat on the mat and swirled his soup in silent disapproval. He wasn't a fan of soup, and if he was, it wouldn't be this. It had some kind of vegetable mix that he couldn't make out. All he knew was it wasn't tasty. However, he occasionally sipped some of it, grimaced, then felt himself droop with tiredness – a unusual feeling for him. Nothing like his Mom's old cooking.

The Soldier ate his dinner standing with no comment. Everyone (with the exception of the Demoman, who knew the truth) thought the Soldier had served in the military for years, and was thus used to the taste of his 'rations'. The American did not reminisce on the dark history of his unofficial massacres, and instead swallowed his soup through gritted teeth.

The Pyro did not eat anything at dinner time, only eating at the dead of night. Instead, the Pyro silently laughed as he played with his matches on the non-flammable plastic mat and delighted in putting them together, watching the fires battle for survival. No one asked how many matches Pyro had (though this was mostly because it would be difficult to perceive an answer).

The Demoman wasn't hungry, only thirsty. He pouted and frowned and fumed in his chair, only eating for the sake of staying alive. He tried to close his single eye and picture the soup as sweet, nourishing whiskey. The strong taste and smell of foreign vegetables ruined the illusion, and the cyclops restrained himself from cursing loudly by playing with a (fortunately inactivated) pipe grenade.

The Heavy, as expected, greedily slurped up his bowl of soup. After several spoonfuls, all concept of manners disappeared and he simply picked up the bowl and let the soup swim down. The others joked that the Heavy would eat anything, no matter the taste. While he was disappointed with the taste, his stomach growled and he impatiently asked for seconds. He sulked when he was refused.

The Engineer ate his soup as he reclined on his trusty toolbox. This taste reminded him of his late wife; she had never been a wonderful cook, but she always tried her best. He would joke that her blood and sweat went into every meal, and that's why they weren't tasty. She would laugh, in good humour, and try another recipe. The Engineer immediately blocked off his memories. No use thinking about her now.

The Sniper was among the few who did not mind the taste. He had eaten far worse while venturing in the outback. The only safe haven from the authorities, in his opinion (and experience). His suggestions for hiding out in the Australian badlands had been quickly denied. Still, wasn't his business. The Sniper continued to eat, thankful he was getting some much needed energy out of it.

The Medic turned sour as his soup – which shared the same expression – was slowly but surely devoured. He had as much experience in cooking as the Heavy had experience in advanced thermodynamics. However, the team depended on him and the Medic provided. Partly out of responsibility, partly out of his need for meat shields if things went awry, as they almost certainly would.

The Spy hardly ate a bite, having taken one taste and promptly pushed his bowl away, showing his disgust. He lit another cigarette and breathed deeply, feeling his lungs contract and expand. Smoke and mirrors, that's all he needed. He would glance at the accomplices occasionally, watching them with a contemplative stare. Then he would return to his smoking, keeping to himself.

The team ate in silence.

* * *

The Scout sat in the living room alone. The twilight hour. The only sounds he could hear were the chirping of crickets, the buzzing of flies and the snoring of co-workers.

How had it come to this? Nine guys hiding in a rusty old shack, eating soup for dinner and sharing a single room for beds. It was the sort of thing people would tut at. Homeless people were getting better deals than this.  
In his frustration, the Scout kicked the chair that the Sniper had occupied for roughly twelve hours. He instantly regretted this action, as he clutched his toe and bit his lip, trying not to unleash a barrage of swears. If he woke up the others, shovels and fists and wrenches would probably be his welcome wagon.  
He regained himself and leaned back, resting his back on the wall. He grumbled to himself, moaning about the events that had led them here.

"Bad day, champ?" The Sniper emerged from the doorway, mockingly using the tone of a father. It was no secret that the Scout didn't have a father. After a moment of surprise, the Scout stopped tensing and bared his teeth.

"Jus' shaddup, Snipes." The imitation of a parent had struck him hard.

"Ah, calm down, mate. Didn't mean to spook ya." Sniper smirked. "Thought you wanted some company anyways."

The Scout wanted to jab the lanky man right in his sunglasses (which he rarely removed) but he knew he was right. A heated argument would be better than this crushing silence. "Well... what then?"

"Hm. What'd you want to talk about, Scoot?" The Scout visibly grimaced at his nickname. He hated it when he was called that.

"I dunno. Didn't think 'bout that."

"How about what's happened? That's quite a talk."

"Eh." The Scout pretended to not be interested.

"...Bloody BLU. Or RED. Don't matter no more, does it? They were run by that same sheila the whole time."

"Yeah. Always kinda thought it could be."

"Hm. Well, she's after us now. Not too happy about us learnin' her secret and stealin' her stuff." The Sniper tipped his hat over his eyes in ominous sadness.

"Yeah. The briefcase was a nice souvenir, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. By the way, mate, where'd we put it?"

Scout hesitated. "Uh, I think, um, the kitchen. Yeah."

"Righto. Just checkin' you know your stuff. Might need it."

"Yeah." The two men contemplated each other as the crickets finished their singing.

"I'm off back to the hay. Don't be up all night, you need all that bloody energy of yours for the day." The Sniper smirked. The Scout smirked.  
The Sniper walked back into the hallway and out of sight. The Scout waited for a moment, then another, then walked into the kitchen.

* * *

Sniper was searching the cupboards, mouthing curses. He checked the top, the bottom, left nothing unturned. Unhappy, he turned around to investigate further.

His search was interrupted as his skull was cracked under the blow of an aluminium bat.

The Scout finished his pitch, watching the Sniper fall to the floorboards in a wisp of smoke. The corpse lay still, the familiar blue suit of the enemy Spy now covered in blood. The boy from Boston smiled and laughed hysterically. He had forgotten the thrill of the kill.

"Broke your frickin' skull in, bluey. That's whatcha get for touchin' my ma'!" He laughed again.  
Before he could further attack the intruder with several bat swings to his corpse, the Demoman poked his head around the kitchen doorframe and observed the scene with his one eye.

"Aye, mate, what the hell just 'appened?!" He was promptly followed by most of the team; Spy went to the nearest town every night to 'acquire' supplies, the Heavy had been unable to wake from his deep sleep, and the Pyro slept outside by the door, earning him jokes about guard dogs.

"God damn Spy! Right here! Tryin' to get the briefcase!" The Scout pointed to the Spy to illustrate his point, as well as make sure everyone understood that it was an enemy Spy, not their own.

The Medic adjusted his glasses and briefly examined the corpse. He checked for the usual commodities (Dead Ringer watches, disguise kits and so on) before turning to his accomplices. "...Zey know ve are here."

"Correct, physician!" The Soldier roared in contempt. "Those bastard blues are onto us. We have been compromised!" He reached for his shovel again.

The Sniper – the real Sniper – put a disapproving hand over the Soldier's. "Save it, yank. We have to think things through here."

"Sniper has a point, boys." The Engineer nodded in agreement. "We need to get going. BLU is on the way, and even if we hold em' off, we still got that Administrator gal after us, and her corporate boys are packing."

A grave series of nods followed.

"Ve vill need to get going as soon as ve can. The truck is with Spy, I believe?" The Medic inquired.

"Yep, he'll be off stealing some essentials. He won't be back till' daybreak." He sighed loudly. "We're on the lamb."

"Then we stand guard!" The Soldier ordered, awake and alive with the prospect of impending violence. "From 0300 hours to 0700 hours, we will stay awake until every blue infiltrator has been tortured, killed, and tortured again! Is that clear?"

The Demoman collapsed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

_First off, there are no homosexual themes intended. Sorry, ladies (or fellas).  
Second point, accents are used. Medic, Spy and Demoman are most apparent. I apologise if they are distracting or incorrect, but dialect is important.  
Thirdly, the story plays from the Scout's perspective. While I don't particularly like the Scout, I felt he was the best for getting the plot moving. Little wirey bugger.  
On a fourth note, the plot is purposely ambigious, but here's the gist; the RED team found out the Administrator runs both teams, she's not happy about that, they ran off before she could "fix" the problem and now they're on the run from both her and the BLU team. They took the intelligence briefcase, too.  
Lastly, I would like to continue this but I need to know if people would be interested or not. Future chapters would be from other perspectives, and maybe flesh out the plot a bit more._

_Please let me know what you think, even if you absolutely hated it. I love a good old fashioned argument._

_PS: Yes, I made the "he was a spy all along" mistake. I apologise, but I think it worked alright. I'll refrain from doing that in the future.  
_


	2. Sunday Drive

_As I feel this one-shot was rather successful, I've decided to continue it. Well, at least for a while. I don't have much development planned, but this is a great way for me to work on giving character insight (similar to what I wrote for when the team were having dinner)._

_Anyway, note that the chapters will be rather shorter than my first 4000+ word marathon. Obviously, this means less content, but it means not only is it faster for me to release chapters, but it means there's less to digest per page. I felt the original chapter had too much in it (didn't have the heart to cut it - should split it into two chapters, honestly)._

_Anyway, enjoy the chapter._

* * *

It was a habit of the Spy to be punctual. Therefore, he would always return to the hideout by 0800 hours; today was no exception.

However, today seemed a little different, since every one of his comrades were patrolling outside, eyeing the army of trees surrounding their position.

As the Spy parked just outside the front porch, he was greeted by a shotgun being lodged into his cheek. He gave a brief sigh, cigarette smoke flooding from his lips.

"Oh, please, folle américaine, I really am on your side." The shotgun lowered. "Would you care to explain why we are all outside ze house?"

"We have been compromised!" The Soldier repeated his exclamation from the night time incident. His usual '5 o'clock shadow' was more clear than before, suggesting a restless sleep. "We have been patrolling the perimeter in case any goddamn sons-of-bitches try to gut us in our sleep again – like _cowards._" The Soldier made it clear he did not believe the Spy's job to be admirable. No one did.

"Well..." He drew another sweet inhale through his cigarette. "It would appear you were successful in guarding ze barracks, oui? My congratulations, Soldier."

The compliment obviously succeeded and the American stood down, allowing himself a brief grin. While he was distracted, the Spy stepped out of the truck and met up with his team. With the arrival of the truck and its driver, they had long forgotten they were supposed to be keeping an eye out. Luckily, the Soldier had forgotten, too.

"Yo, knucklehead, your blue twin came up here and tried to take the damn intel!" The Scout mimed his legendary bat swing, while the Spy exhaled more grey smoke. The youngest of them had gone through the night without a hint of fatigue. Did he ever run out of energy, the Spy wondered.

"I suppose he did not live to tell his tale?" A nod. "Hm. I suppose I was the better one. Nonetheless, what do we do now?"

"Ship out n' find some new safe harbor." The Engineer suggested. He appeared relatively unaffected by the night shift, except for a slightly hunched posture and a wavy pitch in his voice. "We gonna get gunned down out here if we don't."

"We use the truck, drive out, look for somewhere else, roight?" The Sniper supported his Texan brother. The Spy studied him for a moment, then nodded. It was the best plan. It was the only plan. "Good, cause I'm drivin'." Sniper grinned to himself, getting in the driver seat before anyone could raise an objection.

"I stole it, so I believe I belong in ze front." The Spy returned to the truck, seating himself next to Sniper. The two men avoided looking at each other, both uncomfortable with each other's company.

"And it was built by me, sonny jim, so don't go forgettin' that." The Engineer took the remaining seat in the truck cabin, taking the passenger seat. He adjusted the dashboard for a while. He always had to be doing something, the others agreed. Most of them could picture him as a young boy, trying to build world landmarks out of wooden blocks and sticks.

With no more space available, the remaining six mercenaries knew they would have to occupy the back of the pick-up truck.

"Vell, let's take some supplies and ve vill be off." Everyone obeyed Medic's order and, as quick as possible, took all the provisions they could scavenge. After piling up their remaining food, drink and other essentials, the six men clambered onto the open back of their getaway vehicle. It swayed slightly as the Heavy lumbered and rested his wide back against the truck's cabin.

"...Ach, not this bloody truck again! Ya know I get 'travel sickness'." The Demoman complained.

The Medic gave a sarcastic tut. "You get 'everything sickness', _dummkopt_." The others gave a slight chuckle, trying to improve the mood as the Sniper turned the keys and the rusting engine coughed to life. Slowly, they drove out and onto the rural road down the Blue Ridge Mountains, watching their hideout sleek off into the distance.

Another long trip.

* * *

Stars lighted the midnight sky over the Alabama border.

The Scout felt a hint of envy. Damn stars, so high above him. One day, he'd run and jump and climb his way up there and show those damn stars he could be one too. He could be a star. His mom had told him that once. Was it just her being a motherly mother? He frowned. He had been the runt of the litter, the one she never found time for.

Well, one day, he'd be on top of the world. And he'd look down, and laugh. The Scout smiled to himself.

The Soldier paid no attention to the stars. Stars were for the artists and the writers, the lousy little lime-licking livid lackeys. The Soldier had no time to jot down what he did, or change what he did into some damn epitome or sonnet. No, he was a man. All around the world, men would call up to the stars and vow they would try to change the world. The Soldier was one of these men, but he did what he said he would; he destroyed anything that did not belong in his world. He was a man of action. A devastator of worlds.

The Soldier frowned. That was a bit... poetic. Damn, he was going soft. He fought the urge to punch someone in the mouth.

The Pyro was alone. Surrounded by teammates, yes, but alone. He could not stop looking upwards at the stars. They saw small twinkling lights, but he saw the blazing inferno suns they truly were. They gave light and heat and energy, burning for a million years, fuelling the universe and all its inhabitants. When they were finished, they burst into a vortex of pure heat. But they were never truly dead. Their fire made the worlds below alive, and they would live on, and they would remember the stars above for their sacrifice. They would remember with fire.

The Pyro reached up, trying to reach the stars and become one with them. He gave a muffled sigh as he remained below.

The Demoman drank the last of the whiskey, savouring the nectar of life for every moment that he lived. His liver, his eye, his brain cells, all of them were going or gone because of the damn stuff. But the Demoman didn't care. He didn't care about anything. With death always after him and only one wrong step sending him into the afterlife, why worry? He would just open another bottle, swig down some liquid courage and laugh in the face of death. Nothing stopped him. Nothing.

The Demoman suddenly lurched over the picket edge of the pick-up truck and vomited. Okay, _some_ things stopped him.

The Heavy hummed to himself, content with the warm night air and the sound of engines spinning. Sasha sat on his lap, while he absent-mindedly stroked the surface of her metallic skin. Sasha was his, and his alone. He had seen Scout try and use her once, only to fail in even holding it right, let alone picking up his weapon among weapons. He laughed to himself, happy with his role as Sasha's handler. She was a beast, ready to strike and mow down anything that dared provoke her attention, but the Heavy would hold her gently and leave her quiet.

The Heavy stared at his heavy weapon. Soon, he would handle her again, and press the trigger again, and she would sing again.

The Medic watched his fellow men, each in their own little world. He had always wondered what mental issues lay beneath each of their fragile skins. From pyromania to schizophrenia, from neurotic rage to alcoholism, it seemed he had his work cut out. That is, if they ever found somewhere safe. Until then, they would have to take out anyone who stood in their way. Therefore, the doctor thought it would be more beneficial to leave his teammates a little unhinged and ready to fight.

The Medic felt his fingers twitch. He too wanted to fight. It was all they wanted. It was all they _could_ do.

The truck rolled through the night in silence until Heavy frowned.

"Are we there yet?" He asked. The others smiled. Not for long. But enough.

* * *

"There's just driving, m'am."

"Yes, I was aware of that. I need to know where."

"They're approaching the Alabama border, m'am."

"Stop calling me that."

"Yes, m'am."

".........."

"...I mean, yes."

"Hmph. Can you prepare an attack squad?"

"We'll send our nearest unit after them when they reach the border."

"Excellent. Do not fail me."

"Of course, m'am."

"**SILENCE!**"

"..."

"Kill them. Administrator out."

* * *

_Your thoughts are appreciated. If you have the time, drop by with a review. Course, I don't blame if you don't. You lazy bugger._

_PS: Spy says "folle américaine", which means "stupid American". Pinstriped prat.  
_


	3. Sweet Home Alabama

_Thanks for any and all reviews. The support has helped me keep this up, and I'm starting to enjoy writing each chapter._

_I hope you enjoy reading it, too._

_

* * *

_

Brief gasps, screams and the sound of knives piercing skin penetrated the night. Not that anyone minded, since there were no witnesses to hear them.

The Spy returned, adjusting his tie and sheathing his butterfly knife. After a brief moment of posing for style, he returned to the truck, inconspicuously hidden between the thicket of trees.

"Ze border patrol 'ave been disposed with." The Spy finished another cigarette, before opening his disguise kit and retrieving another. "I believe we should remove any evidence, oui?"

"Ya. Ve should be careful." The Medic turned to his teammates. "Engineer, go check on zheir computer equipment. Pyro, get rid of ze bodies. Soldier, go search for any ammo. Are ve clear?" Seven heads nodded, while one tilted up.

"Who put you in charge of this unit, doctor?" The Soldier asked with contempt.

The Medic turned to him, a stern look etched on his face like stone. "I did." An awkward silence followed, while the Soldier thought of how to react. "Now go help ze others." The Medic turned and helped clean up the provisions on the back of the pick-up truck.

The four assigned mercenaries scrambled off to the border outpost; Spy briskly walked, trying to keep any creases from forming in his suit; Engineer wandered over, much more relaxed than his paranoid counterparts; Pyro huddled behind, mumbling to himself with burning anticipation; the Solder marched along, grumbling about the German's sudden command.

The Soldier kicked the outpost door open with sudden enthusiasm, while the others followed behind him.

* * *

Everyone got to work.

The Soldier stopped by the bodies, examining the knife wounds, before checking for any firearms. He would remove any remaining bullets or equipment, before unceremoniously dragging the bodies to the corner, where Pyro stood and twitched with giddy suspense. Meanwhile, the Spy searched for anything for interest in the drawers and lockers, while the Engineer did his searching through the computer terminal.

"That's all their ammo confiscated." Soldier turned to the pyromaniac, after piling the fourth and final guard into the corner. "Do the honors, private?"

Pyro perked up with happiness, muffled laughter whispering through the mask filter.

He immediately wielded his flamethrower and let forth a barrage of fire. The room lit up with a strong tint of red and orange. The guards gradually reduced to burning skin, then scarred muscle, then charred bones, and finally the most beautiful form – dust and ashes. Even after they were whittled down to black specks, the Pyro continued to burn, hooting with mad laughter. The Soldier boldly put a firm hand on the maniac's shoulder and grunted. Pyro, reluctantly, turned off the flamethrower.

"Did good, private. Just be careful where you point that damn thing." He advised.

"Coming from a fella who has a rocket launcher on his back right 'bout now?" The Engineer joked. The Spy allowed himself a chuckle while the Pyro cackled through his mask. The Soldier 'harumphed' and went to find some form of container to put the stolen ammo in.

* * *

Sniper sat in the driver seat, while most of the others conversed outside. He had detached himself from the rest of the gang long ago. It wasn't that he didn't like the company of others; he only wanted some peace and quiet while he was on the job. He turned to Scout, who had – once again – tried to get some proper company.

"It's just..." Sniper took another sip from his beer, covertly taken from the stash on the back of the truck. "...When you 'ave to kill, without feelin' anything, just keepin' cold and quiet 'bout it..." He faltered. "...Ya just can't look at people the same way." The Sniper looked down, sunglasses blocking his pale eyes.

Scout sat reclined, but he was anything but relaxed. He wasn't sure how to react. After a moment of Sniper remaining silent, Scout tried to help. "Well, I know whatcha mean, Snipes. I mean, it's frickin' hard to get over killin'. But we gotta."

Sniper looked at the youngest teammate, suddenly feeling a lot less wise. "...Yeah." He remembered the advice his uncle had given him. "...Thanks." Be polite. That's what he had to be.

"No probs, man. I mean, it's in ya job, so I don't-"

"Shush."

The Scout gave a hurt frown. "Hey, man, don't shush-"

"Quiet!"

Sniper was obviously concentrating, closing his eyes and twisting his face with mental exertion. Scout tutted and looked away, no longer in the mood for chatting.

The Australian listened, then listened, then listened, then-

"...Oh. Oh, bugger." He turned to Scout. "...I think we got a problem."

* * *

"Well, labourer, 'ave you found anything?" Spy said lazily. He was more interested in stealing valuables than looking for information.

"Not yet, pinstripe." Engineer muttered, returning the favour of nicknames.

The two of them never got along. Granted, Spy wasn't supposed to, but everyone else seemed to like Engy. He had given up long ago trying to make amends with Spy, but he accepted that not everyone in the world had to like him. As long as he could tolerate them, it was fine. A shame, since tolerance was something Spy and Engineer were not good at. Or anyone else on the team, for that matter.

But they were both clad in red, so they had to work together. Didn't mean they had to like it, of course.

A crude radar blinked on one of the screens. The Engineer held his breath, not knowing what this could signify. He checked the equipment, read the scratched labels taped randomly next to the screens, tried to remember what type of radar would-

He dropped his shotgun, the metal clang sounding through the room.

"Thrmhthng wrrng, hnguhnhhr?" Pyro tried to ask.

"...Engineer?" The Spy looked at his frozen ally.

"We... we have to go... right now." The Engineer pointed to the radar, now realising what the approaching green blinking dots represented.

The four fighters looked at each other. They immediately ran for the door, Soldier booting it off the hinges with splintering rage. They stormed outside.

The convoy of black-clad jeeps, helicopters and vans coming from Alabama was approaching fast.

* * *

Engineer turned to his teammates by the pick-up truck, his face showing nothing but panic.

"Get out o' here! Now!" He shouted, loading shells into his trusty shotgun.

They stood still, unsure how to act, before Sniper turned the engine on. "You heard him. Get in th' truck."

The Medic looked at him with a mix of disgust and anger. "Ve don't leave anyone behind! Ve swore on it! Ve are-"

"Dammit, doctor, shut your talkin' hole and get out of here, or I will personally cram you in there like the maggot you are!" The Soldier roared. It was obvious that despite his angry demeanour, he was holding back emotion for his unit.

The Medic faltered, looking at the incoming wave of private military, then jumped into the back of the escape vehicle. Everyone else followed solemnly (Medic could have swore he saw Heavy on the verge of tears). Sniper thrust his foot down, roaring the engine to life and ploughing as far as he could through the autumn forest.

"We go back! We have to help comrades!" Heavy blubbered.

"...Ve could not handle that many. Ve must simply hope that they hold them off for long enough so ve get away."

Heavy choked, trying to find some way of convincing them to get them to turn around. He couldn't and clenched his fists in anger.

Demoman eyed his empty whiskey bottle and gave a deep sigh. "Good luck, mates. You'll bloody well need it."

* * *

The remaining mercenaries hid behind the concrete bunker-like building that served as the border outpost. The imposing vehicles halted, enemies sprawling out and onto the ground. They were clad in pure black, wearing biker helmets with obsidian visors, holding large and threatening machine guns.

The Soldier loaded his rocket launcher, sniggering with laughter. He was back home. He was back on the battlefield.

The Pyro stroked his flamethrower, appreciating his handwork. Time to show the ignorant what fire meant to him.

The Engineer rapped his fingers on his shotgun. He was without his toolbox, but he could still use a damn gun.

The Spy inhaled deeply from his cigarette. Cornered, undisguised, and only armed with a revolver. Just like old times.

"See ya on the other side, fellas." Engineer said quietly. Soldier grinned, the prospect of death only fuelling him. Pyro hesitated for a moment, apparently lost in thought. Spy sighed and nodded in respect to his rival.

The Adminstator's forces rounded the corner.

Everyone got to work.

* * *

_Thanks for reading, but if you would like to leave a review, I would appreciate it if you answered a few questions for me._

_One: In the prologue and most of the first chapter, I tried to show the story through the perspective of one character (Scout). Would you like it if I returned to that style, or is my current style of writing (more general) better? A story from one character means more character insight, which is what people seem to really like about Condemned, but it means narrative will be a bit slower or more difficult to write._

_Two: Any characters you feel I haven't justified? Personally, I think I'm paying too much attention to Pyro and Sniper. Your thoughts?_

_Three: I'm debating whether or not to have the Pyro remove his/her mask in the future. Would you want to do that, and if so, what should lie beneath? Keep in mind that if I do Pyro female, she will _not _be pretty. No fanservice for you._

_Anyway, as always, thanks for reading.  
_


	4. Singing In The Night

_Well, here's your next chapter. This was originally had more content, but I've cut it for the next chapter. Therefore, this is a bit short and there's not much insight. However, it gets the plot moving._

_Anyway, enjoy. Or don't._

_

* * *

_

The Engineer took another hard strike to the face, adding to the thin but clear pool of blood collecting by his feet.

"Where are they?" The man in the suit asked again. It could have been the third time, it could have been the thirteenth, it could have been the millionth time; Engineer couldn't even _bother_ to count anymore.

He smiled to show his somewhat crooked teeth, knocked from the beatings. "Better try harder than that, city boy."

The man in the suit punched him again. His construction helmet teetered to the side before sliding back into position. His goggles were still firmly attached. All that was different about the Engineer was he had a lot of blood on his overalls and he was tied to a chair in an intimidating – though somewhat cliché – interrogation.

"Nuh uh, give it up, lady." Engineer gave a weak laugh before being sharply elbowed in the ribs.

* * *

Heavy pinned the Sniper to the side of the truck, watching the inferior man's legs dangle comically. The huge man had no problem lifting his co-workers up, and it was especially useful when trying to make a point.

"We go back. We help team! Be credit to team for once, Sniper!" The Heavy, while having a low and intimidating growl for a voice, couldn't stop himself from choking up.

The Sniper was visibly shaken, not just from the vulgar actions of the larger man, but from his words – they had never seen as a help to the team. Ever. "Alroight, big guy, j-just put me down first, hear?" His voice was also trembling.

"Vhat makes you so smart? I know what is right! I know we must go back! Da? You hear me, little sniping man?!" The Heavy's grip tightened.

The Demoman had had enough. "Right, that's bloody well enough!" He intervened, swaggering between the two interlocked men, standing next to the parked truck. "Heavy's right, we oughta go back n' help em'. But even I knaw when me luck's down, and we couldn't 'ave taken all of em'. So we did t' right thing, ya hear? **YA HEAR?!**" The Demoman roared, disappointed in everyone. Even Medic looked at the ground, unsure how to reply.

Slowly, the Heavy settled Sniper back on the ground. The Sniper readjusted himself to try and appear professional, but didn't succeed.

Happy he had done his part, Demoman turned to Medic. "You take over, me bloody head is achin'." He clutched his head as he went back to checking on the supplies, which had been tossed about during their escape. It was as if he had never done anything.

"...So, we go help?" Heavy asked.

"When it is safe." Medic said grimly. "When it is safe."

As if on cue, Scout blitzed through the forest clearing, sweat along his brow and blood stains still visible on his red uniform.

"...Is it safe?" Medic asked dryly.

Scout shook his head between large gasps for air. Medic sighed.

* * *

Another man in a suit entered the room, just as the first man was preparing another assault on his suspect.

The first man turned to the second man. "How have the others done?"

The second man shook his head. "Nothing. The Soldier has been shouting military protocols that don't even exist, the Spy is still nowhere to be found and we can't get any answers out of the Pyro."

Engineer chuckled, before another elbow met his ribs. At least the others hadn't buckled under the pressure and told the Administrator's boys where the briefcase was. How could they? The others had taken their special prize with them in the truck to god knows where.

The first man remained silent for a while. "Soldier. I imagine he had some psychology training to prevent this sort of thing."

The second man sighed. "Yes, we trained him for interrogation exercises. He's given his role and rank, and that's all. Apart from his insults, nothing valuable."

"Looks like that training backfired on ya, didn't it?" The Texan continued to heckle the captors. This time, it was the second man who struck him. The Engineer refused to give in and kept smiling, as if this was all a joke.

"Spy. He disappeared as soon as he was loaded into the van. Apparently, he had been using the 'Dead Ringer' equipment." He checked the notes on his clipboard.

Engineer just gave a single laugh. Nothing else needed to be said. He still received a kick to the shins, which was more than painful.

"Pyro. Well, with the mask on, we can't get any decipherable answers." The second man noted.

The first man scowled, trying to keeping his patience. "Just take the mask off then."

"We did. Just begged for it back and starting attacking anyone that came close, until we put it back on." The second man frowned.

The Engineer mirrored his expression with his own frown. Pyro without his mask? They'd all wondered, but nobody got close to Pyro before he was on the alert and screaming muffled gibberish at them. Demented fella.

"What'd he look like?" The Engineer asked, his first question of the day.

The second man shook his head. "You don't want to know." He then paused. "'What did he-' Oh." He laughed to himself. "You don't _know_."

Before the Engineer could ask what he meant, the first man nudged the second man impolitely. "Get back to work on finding the Spy."

"Yes, 'sir'." The second man made his sarcasm clear before leaving.

The Engineer turned back to his captor. "What's next, then?"

Silently, the man in the suit searched the locker cabinet in the corner of the small grey room, before revealing two electrolyte rods. "Electrotherapy."

"Last time I book a holiday in here, ey, mister?" The two men gave a bemused laugh, before the man in the suit advanced, rods at the ready.

* * *

Sniper started the engine, with Scout and Demoman occupying the other seats. The assassin turned to the Heavy and Medic, stationed outside at the forest clearing.

"...You sure about this, mates?" Sniper asked in a quiet voice.

"Ve can handle ourselves. You three, go find ze others." Medic showed no emotion of his face. He forced himself not to.

Demoman sighed. He had so little this whole time, and here he was again, doing nothing to help. Well, he'd make it up to them. Somehow.

The Heavy Weapons Guy turned to look at Scout. The younger man blinked, unsure what to say.

"You did well!" Heavy proclaimed, with a smile that radiated with happiness.

Everyone else smiled, too. Nothing could stop that guy. Except maybe a private army, but they were about to find that out.

Sniper, silent as ever, turned the keys and – after a brief salute – drove into the distance. Heavy's words rang through the Scout's head like the sirens and alarms whirring behind them.

"...I think it's 'bout time we got to the bottom of this, don'tcha think, laddies?"

Medic checked on their medical kits, their battery packs, and their ammo containers. Content, he gave the nod to Heavy, as he revved up his minigun. He gave a long, quiet sigh.

"You sing again, Sasha..."

Singing filled the night.

* * *

The door opened and both of their heads turned. It was the second man from before.

"Sorry again, but apparently, the Engineer has something on his person."

Engineer frowned. He thought they'd all been confiscated.

"In the front pockets." The second man pointed. The first man solemnly put the electrolyte rods to one side. He began to search the front pockets of the Engineer's overalls. The Texan looked up and saw the second man approach the first man, before plunging a familiar butterfly knife into his back. The first man yelled with sudden pain, before staggering and landing with his head in the small pool of the Engineer's blood.

The disguise faded in an eerie cloud of smoke, revealing the Spy, smoking a cigarette as always. A brief silence followed, before the Engineer kicked the deceased man in the head (partly to make sure he was dead, partly for his own satisfaction). "Thanks, mister."

"Think nothing of it, labourer." The Spy shrugged and began to cut through the Engineer's ropes with his almost-entirely-red knife. This wasn't his first kill.

"So, you got out, eh?" Engineer asked the question he already knew the answer to.

"Oui." The Spy finished, throwing the ragged ropes to one side of the room. "Zat Dead Ringer was worth my investment." He gave a small laugh.

Engineer stood up, brushing himself off. "And the other guys?"

"Soldier escaped by himself. He is running amok somewhere, still tied to his chair."

Engineer smirked. "Ain't that just like him. And Pyro?"

Spy faltered. "...I do not know."

"Oh." Engineer suddenly looked up. "Hold on there a mo'... You came to save me first?"

The Spy turned away. "You were the most valuable asset." He walked out of the room before Engineer could question him further. After taking a brief moment to retrieve his weapons from the locker and spitting on the interrogator's body (making sure Spy didn't see), he followed.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

"Administrator?"

"Yes, I called quite some time ago. I would _much_ prefer you picking up the phone a bit sooner."

"O-Of course, Administrator."

"Report."

"The Engineer, the Soldier and the Pyro are under interrogation. None of them have revealed where the vital intelligence is."

"Move on to our more... convincing methods."

"Electrotherapy is being adminstered as we speak."

"Excellent. And the Spy?"

"N-nowhere to be found."

"I want him found. _Now_. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course. We'll do our best."

"Hmph. 'Your best'. ...The others?"

"The Sniper, the Scout and the Demoman are still escaping via their stolen vehicle. The Medic and the Heavy, however, have remained behind. They are fighting against our forces."

"How long before we overrun them?"

"...Actually, Administrator-"

"What?"

"They're, um... They're winning."

"..."

"..."

"...That damn nanoshield technology we built- ...Alright. Listen."

"Y-yes?"

"Send another force. Or two. Hell, make it a hundred thousand men, I want them captured_._"

"Of course. O-of course."

"Adminstator out. Oh, and Miss Pauling?"

"Um, yes?"

"_Do not fail me this time_."

* * *

_Hitting the fan, isn't it?_

_As always, reviews are read and very much appreciated. Don't forget to give your views. Any classes you want more insight on? Should Pyro be unmasked and what should lay beneath? Any perspectives you would like to see the story from more?_

_Drop a review, I'm usually free._

_Thanks for reading. Skye out. Do not fail me this time."  
_


	5. Breaking Out Is Hard To Do

_Chapter five. We're no_w _following the Engineer, the Soldier, the Spy, and the Pyro in their facility escape attempt; the Scout, the Demoman, and the Sniper evacuating across the country; and the Heavy and the Medic enjoying the glory of battle (so to speak)._

_I'm not too happy for this chapter, but this really sets things up for a cool reunion._

_

* * *

_

They turned the next left to find Soldier headbutting an already-dead guard. True to the Spy's word, he still had his arms tied in rope to a chair on his back.

"Would you care for some help, moiser?" Spy asked through his cigarette-holding lips.

Soldier turned to them, blood still trickling from his dented battle helmet. "Get this damn chair off me and I'll show you how a real man does his killing." A mad grin accompanied his request. The Spy rolled his eyes and quickly undid the ropes with a single slash. The Soldier adjusted himself, before holding up the shovel he had previously tied to his back and admiring its beauty.

"Good work, private. Though I expected you much sooner. Don't make me take down a peg with my bare hands!" He mimed choking an invisible man. Engineer and Spy didn't bother replying. "Now let's get out of this damn graveyard. Double time, maggots!" The Soldier yielded his rocket launcher, still covered in mud and blood, before storming down the corridor on the left. The other two men looked at each other for a moment.

"Wrong way, American." Spy called after him.

The Soldier stormed back to them and then down the corridor on the right. Engineer chuckled as he loaded his shotgun and followed behind Soldier and Spy. Back to work.

* * *

The abandoned barn seemed too spacious to the three runaways. Maybe it was because six of their friends were gone.

Sniper leaned beside one of the beams, sunglasses pushed tightly to his face and his arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't said a word since they left Heavy and Medic to whatever fate. Scout strode around with a thorough temper, insects buzzing around his head in circles – much like he did to his enemies. Demoman simply closed his one eye and sat in the corner. It was unknown whether he was sleeping or not.

None of them had spoken for nearly an hour after finding the disused farm. It was clear that nothing should be said that would help. But then again, the Scout wasn't known for helping.

"Right, that's it, I can't frickin' stand it." He waited for someone to tell him to "pepper down" or "shut his piehole" or "be quiet, schvinehund". Nothing. "Well?! We just gonna sit here like a bunch o' old cripples, while our guys hang out there and get paddled in the balls or something?!"

Sniper looked up, then looked down and grunted. Scout snapped and advanced on the assassin, true Bostonian rage etched on his face.

"Ya damn coward. Ya damn _**coward**_! That's what you are! The chain-smoking Frenchie has more backbone than you." Scout said in a low voice, trying to sound braver than he felt.

Sniper refused to move or react. What could he say? What could he do? Guilt held him still.

"You never say nothin'! Ya always look right through us, like we're just movin' targets to you! Well, listen here, Snipes! We're gonna look right through you too. You're not one of us, and ya never will be, you frick-"

The Scout was knocked to the ground as a bottle struck him across the head.

* * *

"So what's the plan, boys?" Engineer enquired.

"Kill every last piece of maggot scum in this building!" Soldier cackled.

"Apart from that."

"Ze attack convoy is still outside." The Spy informed them. "We simply steal one of their trucks and from zhere, we drive out. Comprende?"

The Engineer nodded. The Soldier tried to figure out what the word 'comprende' meant, before nodding for the sake of pride.

They turned the next corner of the corridor into the main lobby, before immediately halting in their tracks.

Fifty armed guards, pointing their weapons at their heads, were covering the main entrance, cold as steel and dark as night.

"...Excellent." The Spy said.

* * *

Demoman peered down as Scout peered up, blood on the side of his face and wide eyes. He had an expression on his face they had never seen before.

"Naw listen here, laddie. I know things 'ave been going rough, and we're down by six, but the last bloody thing we be needin' is for us to be fightin' amongst each other."

Sniper and Scout went even more wide-eyed. The Demoman was crying.

"You're the first fam'ly I ever truly had. I can't bloody stand to see us breakin' apart." He took a breather, wiping away one stream of tears. "I saw me parents taken away right before me two eyes. Two, when I 'ad both of em'. Broken apart, by me own bombs." He closed his eye. "Adoptive parents, but me family nonetheless. Just like all you laddies."

He dropped the remaining half of his bottle and grabbed both of them by their clothes. Scout was sweating with nervousness while the Sniper was simply frozen by intimidation. They both stared into his single, tear-filled eye.

"Now stop this fightin'. Right now. **YA HEAR ME?!**" The Demoman roared, the anger of an orphaned child rising up in him for the first time since he was just a lad.

Two very fast, very quiet nods.

"So 'ere's what we gonna do. We're gonna go find our laddies, we're gonna break em' out, we're gonna go find that ol' hag and stuff that briefcase of hers right up her arse!" He grinned insanely. "So stop fightin' and suit up, laddies."

He let go. The other two mercenaries stared in shock. After what seemed like an eternity, Sniper slowly took out a handkerchief from his chest pocket and offered it to the Scout.

"...Clean up, mate."

The Scout took it, and silently wiped off the blood and picked out the small shards of glass. "Y-yeah yeah, thanks, yeah."

Demoman loaded his grenade launcher, smiling with his tear-stained lips. His dad was dead and buried, but secrets never die and the young readopted boy had not forgotten the tricks and trades of a Scottish demoman.

He was going to make them proud.

* * *

The front guard approached, waving his combat rifle at them. "Return to your cells or we will shoot."

Engineer thought he saw something in the corner of his goggles. He squinted and recognized the shadow of the figure hiding behind the main pillar to the left.

"Ah, well, can't blame some fellas for trying." Engineer tutted.

Soldier deployed his rocket launcher, but Spy quickly batted it down. "I'd rather you didn't. Living for another day is a much better idea."

The Soldier relented, but when Engineer patted him, he growled at his enemy and stood down.

"Drop your weapons." The voice had no accent or tone. They could be robots. Wouldn't surprise them.

"Well, sure, cause that revolver of his is an ol' antique, ain't it, boy?" He jerked the Spy, who – after studying the shadow and the Engineer's expression – happily played along.

"It belonged to my father, who served in-"

"Drop your weapons!" The voice grew more angry.

"Well, it'll take more than just you to drag us hollerin' and fussin' back to those cells." Engineer smirked.

As if on cue, all of the guards advanced. As if on cue, Pyro burst from behind the pillar.

The guards tried to turn and fire in time, but those who noticed were already burning into great human torches. The Pyro ran and ducked and dodged, spraying fire everywhere it went. Anything that touched it reduced to flames.

But not all of them had been purified. Some of them were bracing back up and aiming for the masked intruder.

Soldier blasted the earth and soared into the air, feeling the air rush down around him. He then unleashed all three of his powerful rockets, reducing groups to giblets in the blink of an eye. He landed on the corpse of a fallen foe, brandishing his shovel. He roared, the natural predator of the field.

Engineer and Spy stood side by side, something they had never done before. Revolver and shotgun spread through the room, striking down anyone foolish enough to disobey their intelligent design. The smell of cigarettes and oil were the last thing their enemies knew.

Within seconds, the lobby was a smoking pile of rubble and bodies. The Soldier laughed merrily, body organ littered on his uniform. The Pyro returned the laugh, throwing up his flamethrower in an insane fit of adrenaline. Engineer slapped his knee and hollered, joining in the happiness of the crazy teammates. Even Spy cackled, flicking his cigarette away and enjoying the rush of blood going through his heart.

A moment passed, as the madmen admired their handiwork, before regrouping by the glass entrance.

"Twice, you did good today, private. You might not be the maggot I make you out to be." The Soldier smiled. He rarely smiled.

The Pyro gave a thumbs up, happy with his approval.

"But don't get ahead of yourself, you still can't match up to me on the battlefield!" Despite his serious tone, it was nothing but good-hearted rivalry. Pyro laughed again.

Spy walked to the entrance and gracefully opened the glass doors.

"Shall we?" Spy walked outside, followed by the Soldier. As Pyro began to follow, Engineer placed a hand on the shoulder. The Pyro spun round, as if being assaulted.

"Listen, Pyro, I know you don't say much... and that's fine, you hear?" The Pyro tilted his head and after some silence, nodded. "But... I always wondered... if-"

The Pyro stared, with the eyes of his mask. Black holes. Oblivion. Nothing.

"...J-just never mind, pardner." The Engineer looked down, suddenly embarrassed about nothing in particular.

The Pyro remained frozen, as if hesitating to say something through his obscured filter, then slowly nodded and waddled off after his handlers. Engineer sighed and followed behind.

* * *

The Heavy roared, the beauty of Sasha rushing forth like the mightiest of waves or the strongest of winds. The Medic healed, grinning with the majesty of war and death around him as he furthered his cause.

Together, they stood tall, the rising and falling tides of faceless foes. They could withstand the greatest of weapons, ripping them apart into useless messes of blood and bone.

Missiles soared and rockets glared, fires roared and bullets dared, but together, the team stood tall.

All through the night, the Heavy sang. He sang the song of kings, Sasha and Medic singing alongside him.

And for one moment, just before they could stand no more, he showed the world what one man could do.

With a little help.

And a whole lot of bullets.

* * *

_Possibly my favourite chapter written so far. I finally got to write some action. As you see, I'm still not very literal about it, but I think everyone will at least enjoy the Heavy's glorious moment of poetic killing. Why poetic? Because I want some irony in the mix. Wacky, ain't I?_

_Considered revealing more about the Pyro, but decided against it. Felt I was focusing too much on the little firebug, decided to focus more on the Demoman (as per request). I feel especially proud of the Demoman's speech and I hope you won't think that egotistical of me. Cause it ain't. Foo'._

_Lastly, I'm trying to get things to meet up for a climax. Unless someone has some _seriously _good plot in mind, I feel I want this done and wrapped before we reach double digits. As much as I love to write it, I'd like to work on another sort of Team Fortress story. Hopefully, one that's a bit more light-hearted._

_Ah well, if you enjoy reading, I enjoy writing. Easy._

**_PS: On Steam, I can be found under Skye. Check my profile for a link. It's the homepage. Won't work here for some reason._**


	6. The Unstoppable Force

_Chapter six. I had some major writer's block on this one, but I overcame it. While this is yet another chapter I feel I could improve, I want to get this shipped out to you for enjoyment as soon as possible. Also gives me more time to work on the next, and most probably last, chapter._

_I should note this chapter is told by one group rather than the three from before. It all adds up by the end, though.  
_

_Soldier fans will enjoy this, too. Regardless, please enjoy.  
_

_

* * *

_

The thrill of the hunt. The adrenaline from a chase. The sheer intensity of action. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling to the mercenaries.

However, they weren't used to being the prey.

The Engineer drove faster than he had ever done before, putting his foot down with vigour and swearing, thinking of all the ways he could improve this stock black van used by the Administrator's forces. The Spy sat in the passenger seat, a (stolen) handheld computer of some kind. Blue screens and white text scrolled along, frustrating the Spy to no end, as he continued to try different keyboard button combinations.

Meanwhile, in the back of their newly acclaimed transit van, the Soldier prepared himself mentally for the oncoming storm. Pyro, with long range warfare not in his expertise, focused on loading rockets and maintaining shells. He was fumbling occasionally, agitating his 'superior'.

"Come on, lady butterfingers, can't hold a rocket without having some cowardly stroke?" He gritted his teeth and the Pyro, like a young dog being scowled at, whimpered and handed the readied rockets to the Soldier. He happily took them, clasping and shoving them into the tube of his rocket launcher.

"When you're ready, butterfingers." He grinned, and the Pyro (nonchalantly) opened the back doors. They swung in the rushing wind and the two maniacs looked at the storm.

A brigade of vehicles. The cavalry of vans and jeeps, followed by the waves of helicopters and supported by the guards of motorbikes. An army, troops upon troops, approaching in an unstoppable tsunami of war.

Against a Soldier. _The_ Soldier.

And he was in a bad mood today.

* * *

"Come on, rocketman, show me what mah so-called sergeant can do." The Engineer mocked.

Like a provoked animal, the Soldier growled and readied his rocket launcher. The black wave, seeing their prey ready to fight back, swerved into a formation. The lead jeep opened up the top hatch, as a faceless foe crawled out and yielded a huge machine gun.

"No dice, bicycle boy!" A single rocket soared out with a mighty push, sailing through the air and hitting the lead jeep on the bonnet. An eruption followed, engulfing the men inside into particles and molecules.

Seeing their spearhead fall, the army immediately went on an angered offensive. Windows and hatches opened, revealing the visored enemies.

The Soldier didn't even want to think of anything to taunt at his enemy. He simply roared with bloodlust and unleashed a trio of powerful missiles. Two found their targets, causing two more vehicles to be dismantled to a burning heap.

The guns loaded and readied. Pyro instinctively shut the doors tight, before a torrent of high calibre bullets bounced off the bulletproof surface of the van. He nodded to Pyro, who shuffled over and handed over another four rockets. The Soldier reloaded, his chest heaving and his heart racing. Pyro, seeing the Soldier eager to return to his battlefield, opened the doors again. He unleashed another four rockets, taking out a motorbike, a jeep and a helicopter.

Bullets passed through and into the Soldier, but the nanoshield (still functioning after their escape from the Reliable Excavation Department) blocked every incoming projectile. The Soldier only grunted as the minuscule shrapnel flew through his invisible shield and into his skin. Seeking another reload, Pyro shut the doors.

Soldier cackled with laughter, fuelled by his ability to end lives with a twitch of his finger. As he began to ready his third rocket for its journey, a mighty shockwave shook the van as an enemy rocket grazed the wheels. Pyro tripped over backwards, falling back through the doors and towards the rushing, deadly road below.

A firm, muscled hand grabbed him by the arm. It pulled him back into the van and slammed the doors shut with a great heave.

The Soldier hoisted the Pyro back up. The masked figure was trembling, but managed to regain himself and looked with his anonymous face. "...Thhng yru."

"Don't go fallin' out again, rookie, I need you alive!" His helmet covered his eyes, which was misty with the prospect of losing a fellow fighter.

Spy was about to throw the small PDA away in frustration when finally, the blue screens formed into a translucent-styled menu system. He smiled with success.

"Now you wanna be lookin' for their operations folder, or somethin' similar." The Engineer's voice shook as he drove the van over a particularly bumpy mountain road.

"Hm, I think zis is ze one." He pressed another button. Information arranged on the screen. "Let us see..." With difficulty, he managed to light another cigarette. "Employee contracts, RED operations, BLU operations, global agenda, GlaDOS development scheme- Ah, ze prize. Administrator operations." He continued to press in combonations.

After a few more onslaughts from enemy pursuers, the Spy gave another victorious smile.

"We have ze address. Shall we go say hello to ze lady herself?" He turned to the Engineer.

Engineer smiled back. "We think alike, boy."

"I vouldn't count on zat, labourer."

"Neither would I, yellow-belly."

Before they could continue their heated conversation, something more heated struck the van. A helicopter missile.

For a moment, they span around and around, then over and over, then both at the same time. Doors became ceilings and floors became walls. The deafening sound of the explosion rocking the metal chassis left the four men tumbling in confusion and panic.

They flew, then nothing.

* * *

The Soldier groaned, deeply and painfully. He had only just taken a safe position and posture as he saw the huge missile soar into the back doors. Then they had fallen, rolled down the hillside of the remote mountain.

He looked up and saw his leg twisted. Blood oozed out from a gaping hole, only filled with cracked bones.

He panted hard and sweated terribly, but he refused to cry. He blocked the pain, closed his eyes, imagined that pain away. Nothing was there.

He opened another eye. It was there. And it hurt.

Then he heard the engines roaring, the trumpets of the cavalry charging towards him. He looked around the destruction.

Through the window, Engineer had flown through the window and rolled along the muddy earth outside. He seemed fine, and his helmet would have taken the hardest of the blow. Spy, however, was lying face down on the wheel. A cigarette was still dangling from his lips. And Pyro was lying limp in the sparse piles of ammo. A cut was running along the top of the mask. Soldier looked closer, and saw that the dark red was not blood – it was skin. Deeply burnt skin.

For a moment, he wanted to venture over and see what horrors were tempting him underneath, but the sirens roared.

So Soldier roared back.

Crawling out through the swinging, broken back doors, he leaned himself against the bumper and loaded his last four rockets.

The vans and jeeps rolled down the mountain path. Soldier shot one rocket, then another, then a third, then his last. Four vehicles, thirteen enemies, downed in the blink of an eye.

Those who remained in the convoy skidded to a halt and the army of black jumped out.

Soldier reached for his shotgun and unloaded six well-placed shells into the closest troops.

The enemy didn't bother shooting, instead running over to him, intending to apprehend him.

Soldier threw his shotgun away, taking out his entrenchment tool. As three men tried to hold him down, he bludgeoned two of them in the legs and the third in the head. A sickening crack was made of his thrice swing.

Four men came to replace their fallen. Two of them managed to grapple the shovel from his hands.

Soldier screamed, pure rage soaring from his lungs like the mightiest of eagles.

He lunged at his attackers, ignoring the crippling injury to his leg, and punched everything he could reach. Dented visors and punctured suits littered the area around the enraged man.

The Soldier suddenly stopped. He looked down to see a hypodermic dart, jabbed into his right leg.

He swayed and fell. The horde of foes stopped, watching their target be incapacitated. One of them approached with handcuffs.

The Soldier, his head swinging and his limbs numb, reached up and grabbed the man by the throat. Another dart followed, pinning into his back. He fell again.

A long awkward silence followed. Then after some hesitation, the man handcuffed the wanted mercenary. Four men pulled him up and carried him over to the prison truck.

The Soldier, his world now a blur and his mind threatening to burn, made one last attack. He headbutted one of his guards, then bit into another, before four darts struck him.

He saw the darts, knew he could go no further, then screamed to his captors before sinking into unconsciousness.

"I. _Was_. _**UNSTOPPABLE!!**_" His words ran through the valley, the anger of the Soldier striking fear into man and nature alike.

Then he fell.

* * *

Heavy and Medic turned away as the bright light from the afternoon sky entered the prison truck, along with a familiar face. The Soldier had a horrifically broken right leg, blood smeared all over his torn uniform and seven darts lining along his back and leg.

Heavy gave a silent salute. "Soldier do well. He may even be better killer than Sasha."

Medic remained still, simply looking at the Soldier in his ruined state. He sighed and picked up the Soldier, propping him next to their steel bench in the back of the truck.

A man approached, standing outside the truck. In the background, they could see more of the troops clad in black motor gear. They were extracting Spy, Soldier and Pyro from the wreckage and casually dragging them to another prison truck.

"Well, gentlemen, I am afraid your escapades are over. You will be brought before the Administrator for an execution." He smiled. "I bid you good day."

Just as he began to turn, the Medic stood up with a bitter frown. "You forget, ve have ze Sniper, Scout and Demoman out zhere. Vould you think you could catch zem?"

The man smiled, pure malice in every crease on his face. "Don't worry. Your friends will be there, too."

And the doors to freedom closed shut.

* * *

_I intend to make the next chapter the last, as I feel I can't go much further with this. Remember that this was originally meant as a oneshot, so I had little planning ahead. However, I'll try and go out with a bang._

_Feel free to add me on Steam. A link is provided in my profile._

_Thanks for reading._

_PS: I will not unmask the Pyro, due to reviews overall. If I write another TF2 fiction, I may do so, but I feel everyone has enjoyed the insight on Pyro without having an identity. The scene with him reaching up for the stars remains one of my favourite things written in this. Woot.  
_


	7. Loose Ends & Epilogue

_Last chapter. Let's do this._

_

* * *

_

Nine men were tied down and preparing to die.

All of the mercenaries were sitting in iron chairs, all neatly polished and greased down for their latest victims. They were locked down, staring forwards as the Administrator entered.

The thin, lean woman was clearly old, stressful wrinkles along her face and grey eyeshadow smeared along his eyelids. Her vaguely purple hair was bunched up, occasional hairs splitting out as signs of trauma. A long, withered cigarette hung from her cracked lips.

She strode from the desk casually, as if she was a teacher scolding some children. She glanced over a scattered pile of creased folders, rearranged the stationary, and then turned and stood upright as she faced her former colleagues.

"Well, then." She exhaled a cloud of smoke, masking her face slightly. "Here we are again. And it seems that you are much less incapable of driving than you are being incompetent employees." She turned to face her frightened assistant, Ms. Pauling, who was shying in the corner as far away from her tyrannical administrator and the nine homicidal killers across the room. She immediately panicked, jogging over and produced a shining red briefcase, bullet dents and blood running along the surface. The Administrator silently took it. She examined it like some ancient artefact, then cast it aside.

"Tell me. Which of you imbeciles is going to die first?" She glanced at her captives. No one reacted. "Fine then." She picked up a revolver, clearly stolen from the Spy, and loaded the bullets with expert skill.

"Scout. With his dear mother waiting at home, who aren't going to see him again.

Soldier. The man who kept killing because his father couldn't do the same.

Pyro. That monster, who is going to burn alive, alone and unknown.

Demoman. A son that couldn't honour either of his families, no matter how hard he tried.

Heavy. The bigger brother who couldn't protect his little sister from the bad men.

Engineer. Forever grieved by the loss of his wife, whom he betrayed.

Medic. Disgraced by his work and his family. Shamed of society. An outcast.

Sniper. The lonely wanderer who never had just a friend, to the day he died.

Spy. The man who kept running because he was guilty of what he left behind."

Cigarette smoke filled the silent air.

A few of the men screamed profanities, another few growled and barked at her, while the remaining simply sat in silent sorrow. The Administrator watched, feeling nostalgic as she saw her slaves calling out in anger at her. She was powerful. They were powerless. The equation of the modern world.

She clicked the revolver. Everyone fell silent.

"...Well, do it, maggot. Go on." The Soldier was always first to challenge death. "What's stoppin' you, too busy thinking about whether you left the laundry on?" He struggled in his seat to no avail.

"No. I'm just browsing." Her voice sounded smooth, but not like silk. More like snakes crawling over your body and into your mind.

Engineer sighed. "Then you bedda' take me to the pearly gates first, mam."

Sniper looked incredulous. "Engy, no, mate, you're not the first goin' out. It's gotta be me."

The Texan bowed his head, a yellow helmet hiding his face. "Nothing left me for me, fellas. I mean, I've never been all that good at my job. Better-"

"**No.**" Sniper spoke loudly – a surprise. Engineer looked up. "I've never done nothin' for the team. First person to go out better be the one none of us is gonna miss."

Medic turned in his chair, glasses and mentality cracked. "Nein, schvinehund. We're dying together, simple as zat."

The Administrator, having watched her specimens in torment with silent smiles, gave a tiny malicious laugh. "Actually, it will be one at a time. Sorry, Medic, but are you upset to see your brethren die?"

The German held back all emotion and looked straight down. Ashamed. Just like before.

"Admin lady is coward." The Heavy gripped his chair, silent rage within him. "Cannot shoot me. No courage. **Coward!**"

"Very well." She aimed the gun, resting it right in front of the Heavy's face. The Heavy didn't even flinch. "Miss Pauling, are we clear to execute?"

"Yes, miss." A sound. A reloading sound. "Tying up the loose ends."

The Administrator didn't even have time to turn around and register the Ambassador now in the hands of her former assistant. She also didn't have time to register the bullet travelling through her brain and lodging into the back of the skull.

The most powerful person in the world fell to the ground, blood oozing from the front of her wrinkled face.

"...Holy _doodie_." The Sniper said after an eternity of silence.

* * *

Miss Pauling, after untying the grateful mercenaries, explained that she had had to feign her way to the very top of the corporation to get her best opportunity. The Administrator had been holding the world back from its true potential, and abusing her unquestionable power. So Miss Pauling (who revealed herself to be Miss Isabelle Highmore, which everyone was surprised to hear with the exception of the Spy).

Medic examined the body with even less respect than usual. "Dead. Vunderbar."

Soldier kicked her in the head with his medigun-rejuvenated legs. "Damn right, doc!" He roared with victorious laughter, as a few of his fellow fighters joined in.

Engineer shook his head, however. "But that dame was in charge of pretty much everythin' in the world. What's gonna happen to it all now?"

Miss Highmore (or Pauling) raised a hand and laughed quietly. "Please. I was her second-in-command. I'll be taking her position."

Scout stared at her, then the dead body, than back at her. "Well, yeah, but no chucklehead here is gonna believe she just tripped over a gun or somethin'."

Isabelle Highmore smiled. It was not evil, but eerie. It promised solace, but not the peaceful kind. "And no one is going to argue with the most powerful woman in the world." She adjusted her glasses as if it was the most trivial thing she had said all day.

Scout remained silent, a little worried that her intentions were not all selfless, but he shook himself and helped untie the rest of the mercenaries.

Heavy looked up at nothing, concentrating his brain cells for a moment, before looking at Miss Highmore (who barely reached his chest). "Why help us?"

For a fraction of a second, Engineer saw her look directly at Pyro (who was playing with the deceased woman's lighter, giggling through the filter). But she reclaimed her smile and looked up at Heavy, showing no intimidation. "Your work kept her mind off mine. With you running around, I could keep my infiltration going well, as all her interest was on you."

Heavy nodded, satisfied. He looked down at his boots, shy about asking a question.

Miss Highmore seemed to read his mind. "Sasha is in the back room over there." She pointed and the team scrambled inside to reclaim their weapons. Scout practised some imaginary homeruns with his bat, Demoman laughed insanely as he found his favourite (and luckily full) whiskey bottle, and Heavy stroked his companion as he squeezed the trigger. The ballad played through the barrels, into his bones and flowed in his soul.

Sniper walked over to Miss Highmore, having taken the long enigmatic purple coat from the dead dictator, whom Pyro was now cremating with great enthusiasm.

"First of all, thanks." He said plainly.

She nodded. That was all she needed to say. She was no longer that pathetic boot-licking assistant she had disguised herself as over the last five years.

"Well, see, sheila, you got this company and I suppose you'll do a grand job while you're in charge. But... what 'bout us?"

"Go home." She ordered.

The Sniper scratched his head, unfamiliar with the prospect of not having to kill everyone he met. "Just... go home? What about cash?"

"I'll pay you well enough for the rest of your lives." She smiled, another eerie curve to her lips.

"...Oh." He looked down.

She peered into his heart from through each of their glasses. "You still want to work. You still want to kill."

He slowly nodded, though he was unashamed of her statements.

She turned to the killers. "Go home. Or don't. Go anywhere you like. You no longer work for us."

The killers blinked, sharing the same confusion as the Sniper did.

"I will arrange transport for you. Now leave." She took one of the Administrator's cigarettes and enjoyed a good inhale.

Silently, the former team left through the single door. As Pyro trailed behind and reached to shut the door, Miss Highmore gave one last smile to them.

"...You make us Highmores proud." Isabelle said to her sibling.

The Pyro looked at her, smiled with the red and black cracked skin that made the monstrous and unseen lips, and shut the door.

* * *

Scout paced back and forth in the desolate car park.

"Oh man, we're never gonna see each other again, man." He said to himself.

Engineer shrugged. "Ah, we can always see one 'nother again. Just means it ain't because we have to kill someone." He laughed quietly.

"Well, yeah, but we're, like, parting ways. And I don't wanna, cause-" He hesitated.

Demoman chuckled. "Go on, lad, finish ya sentence."

Scout looked at the eight men, unsure how to phrase his words. "...Cause we're brothers."

There was a long silence. Scout shut his eyes, waiting for to be riddled with not bullets, but cruel laughter. It didn't come. He opened them and found that the team were smiling or nodding or otherwise happy.

Heavy suddenly leapt up and seized the Scout in an enormous hug. Scout struggled in the iron grip. "W-woah, kay, big man, j-just set me down... C-can't breathe, hey..."

The Heavy lowered him. He beamed with a smile. He had forgot what it was like to have a brother.

Demoman sniffed. "Ah, if I wasn't a man, I was, I'd kiss ya." He slapped his knee and laughed, as the others joined in.

The nine vans arrived in perfect formation. The nine brothers turned in perfect synchronisation.

As they all began towards their vessels to freedom, they looked at one another again.

Scout patted his chest, showing his brotherly bond.

Soldier broadly saluted, commending his fellow troops.

Pyro waved like a child bidding farewell to a relative.

Demoman offered his bottle, happier than he had ever been.

Heavy beamed with happiness and roared "Ve did well!"

Engineer chuckled and gave a short but sweet dance.

Sniper tipped his hat and smiled, proud of them all.

Medic bowed, glad that he had completed his work.

Spy flicked his cigarette and laughed. "Gentlemen."

The nine men went to freedom, for they were no longer condemned.


End file.
